


First Contact

by ladysisyphus



Series: concerning John Harrison [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:11:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladysisyphus/pseuds/ladysisyphus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London, 1985</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Contact

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Relvetica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Relvetica/gifts).



> The conceit here is better explained [in this post](http://ladysisyphus.livejournal.com/844100.html).

"You worry too much," Khan said, looking in the mirror as he straightened his kurta.

"And you worry not enough!" Deng folded his arms across his chest and glared out the window with an intensity that might have melted steel. The two guards (of the dozen or so presented to them as personal servants ready to attend to the needs of England's honored guests, but Khan knew security to see it) stood ramrod-stiff by the door, their expressions carefully blank; he'd said enough uncomplimentary things in Tamil earlier that Khan felt certain neither dark-suited man spoke it. "Take me with you."

Khan frowned as he smoothed out the few wrinkles the silk tunic had accumulated during travel, then tugged at the cuffs until the sleeves no longer bunched about his shoulders. " _You_ weren't invited."

Deng's expression of displeasure pitched to near-murderous levels of intensity. " _You_ were. Which means you and the people who come with you."

"He's right, Khan," said Vina; Tamil was her home language, and she spoke it the best of the three of them. "What makes you think this meeting will go better than any other?" She rose from the couch where she'd draped herself earlier as a protest against the dreary English weather -- which, for its own part, had kept right on pouring despite her firm stance.

"Because, dear one," Khan said, stretching his arms behind him so Deng could help him into his heavy gold sherwani, "I am an optimist."

" _Optimism_." Deng made the word sound like a cure. "You are the smartest man I know, and also an idiot."

With a sweet smile in Deng's direction -- one even more satisfying for how it made Deng throw his hands skyward with exasperation -- Khan began to fasten up the coat. It was perhaps a bit flashy for such a personal meeting, but he'd never gotten anywhere in life by opting for subtlety. Over this, he draped the plain black sling that left his kirpan at his left hip, its fine ebony grip and detailed silver sheath there for all to see. Concessions to modernity and a more global-friendly face had led him to shave his beard, and he only bothered with a turban now as a matter of formal dress, but some elements of visible devotion had both ritual _and_ practical elements. Besides, walking out into the London air armed might cause him trouble, and he did so enjoy trouble.

Vina wove her fingers together and stretched her arms high above her head, arching her back so far as she did that Khan could see the looks of surprise on the guards' faces, as though they expected her to tip over at any moment. "Fine, but don't call us crying when you've had another chair thrown at your head."

"At this point, I'd almost be insulted if he _didn't_." With a twist, Khan drew his hair up from his neck and pinned it into place at the back of his head with a broad-toothed kanga. "I've come to expect it as part of European hospitality. They _must_ think highly of me, to be willing to destroy so many fine chairs on my behalf!"

Vina laughed, but Deng scowled again as he stepped close, putting his hand flat on Khan's chest. "We should not be here," he said, lowering his voice as though they might somehow be overheard, as though he hadn't expressed the same opinion five times a day since Khan announced that they would be traveling to meet other Augments like themselves.

But that was part of why he kept Deng around: it was dangerous only ever to hear from those who spoke nothing but agreement. "He is our brother," said Khan, curving his own fingers around Deng's thinner, paler hand.

Deng's dark eyes lowered, hidden behind thick lashes. "I cannot imagine he would agree with your calling him that."

"And _that_ is why I am here." Khan cupped Deng's cheek and gave him a brief yet tender kiss at the corner of his mouth, and if the proper British guards wanted to hold that against him, well, it wasn't the worst sin he'd committed since entering England while brown. "Call it wishful thinking, or call it due diligence. But I am called, in my own way, to be an evangelist. That, at least, a man named 'John' should understand."

Vina walked up behind Deng and slipped her arms around his waist, then rested her chin atop his shoulder, smiling at Khan all the while. "You're crazy. But you know that." She reached across the space between them and poked Khan in the middle of his belly, then laughed as he clasped his stomach as though mortally wounded. "Fine, fine. Have fun getting shouted at in English. I'll keep Grumpy here busy until you return."

He kissed her as well before giving himself one last, long look in the mirror. Such the picture of a civilized savage he made, by natural inclination as well as by conscious choice. No other Augments among the insular, racist, frightened nations of Europe had been impressed by either his appearance or the man behind it, though Khan would never let show his disappointment at their rejection of him. They were frightened, and indeed they had cause to be -- not of _him_ , of course, but fear could blind one to the difference between friend and foe.

In truth, he had no great hopes that his reception England would be any different, but he could hardly pass up the opportunity to try. With a nod to his armed guides, he was led out of the fine house that had been lent to them for their accommodations, down the front steps, and into a long black car that started on its journey without his having to state a destination.

The man waiting for him was a matter of public record, but then again, so was he. In all his twenty-five years, Khan had never once been caught without having done his homework, and he had no intention of picking up now any habits more dangerous than those he had already. In preparation for this meeting, he'd read everything there was to read about England's sole superman (or, more accurately, sole _survivng_ , though that was hardly an uncommon story for any Augment). Though his many outstanding attributes and excellent test scores were plain to see, he did not seem to have been called to put them to any real, practical use. John Harrison was the shining, sparkling diamond in the crown of English science -- though Khan had little trouble reading between the lines to see that, as with the case of the country's other jewel-encrusted trappings of royalty, short of bringing him out for ceremonial purposes, no one who had any control over what to do with him seemed to know what to do with him at all.

And like the Crown Jewels themselves, John Harrison was kept in a very pretty box. The outside of the fine London house to which Khan had been transported was lovely, detailed and decorated and well-gardened and well-guarded (though whether the guards were to keep others out or to keep him in, oh, wasn't _that_ the question?) and all in all a fine English place to live. It was all so very fine, in at least two meanings of the English word. Khan waited until the car door was opened for him before stepping out before a wrought-iron gate that led to a separate business-like entrance at the side of the building. How convenient for England, to keep their superman's home and office in one spot, to save itself the trouble and worry of ferrying him from place to place in an armored car, under heavy guard. So many Augments had never left their countries of origin; some had been kept in the same city, in the same _building_ all their lives. Free of any guard (except those English hospitality insisted be present, who at least were kind enough to carry his umbrella for him) and thousands of miles from his own home of his own volition, Khan stopped to smell the roses growing along the path before continuing on.

No one had said anything about the kirpan, but every set of eyes he'd passed had darted to it. He expected some of the house's more permanent staff, at least, to give protest, but though they paid him wary glances, no one asked him to remove it. He supposed that spoke both well and ill of the guards' attitudes toward their charge: either they expected him to be able to defend himself against a man with a foot-long knife, or they wouldn't mind so terribly if a foreign assassin's blade did its work, or both.

He was ushered with gestures instead of verbal commands (and did they _really_ think he might not speak Engish? alas, he'd learned not to put anything past British bigotry) into a well-furnished office, all dark wood and burgundy carpets and a great fireplace to drive back the damp. By that fireplace stood a man who did not turn at the sound of the door, but continued to stare into the crackling blaze as the orange flames beamed bright against his pale face. He had the same expression Khan had seen in all his photographs: cold, clear, still. The only proof that he was not a wax doll was that he had not begun to melt.

That stoicism, however, did not match the room. Oh, it had been repainted and repaneled and repaired, that much was obvious, but even more obvious was that it had to have been. Some Augments were also predisposed to outbursts of rage, though few hid that potential so well as did the placid figure standing before him. The fear in the guards' eyes was not without reason; when they looked at him, they saw a monster in a fine, well-tailored suit and expensive grey silk tie, standing in rich leather shoes with just the slightest hint of heel, an advantage that did not announce itself but existed all the same.

But there were no monsters here, only men. "Sir John Harrison," said Khan; the English loved their titles. He extended his hand and walked forward, coming straight to John, not affecting the slightest bit of disinterest at their meeting. "I have waited so long to be able to meet you."

John's pale blue eyes widened just a fraction, but a fraction was all Khan needed to be able to see. He did not, as had so many of his European counterparts, either snarl openly or plaster an ersatz grin over bald hatred; instead, he looked up as though unaccustomed to such forwardness and extended his hand only just in time to meet Khan's. "Mister Singh," he said, his voice a roll of thunder breaking along the bottom of his vocal range.

"Just Khan, please." Khan put his other hand over John's, enfolding his marble-cold fingers inside Khan's warm grasp, a combination gesture of warm greeting and promise that he wasn't reaching for a weapon.

"K--" was as far into his name as John got before he closed his mouth again. He swallowed and let his gaze fall to their joined hands, at which point Khan let go with a smile. "And how are you finding England?"

"I suppose the standard joke would be 'with a map'," quipped Khan, and while John did not laugh or even smile, his eyes flickered again with surprise, which by Khan's estimation was just as good. That John had looked down on him since before they even met was obvious, even expected; that this encounter was not conforming to John's prejudices was perhaps the first thing to justify his high hopes that Khan had seen since landing in Athens two months previous. "But the accommodations have been lovely, and your government has been so generous and attentive to our needs. Now if only they could manage to do something about the weather...."

John turned his head toward the far wall, in which sat two large windows that looked out on a small patch of green grass and a larger expanse of rainy sky, made darker even by the late afternoon hour. "It, ah," he said, and he cleared his throat, "it _is_ a bit dreary out, isn't it?"

In France, Khan had made a remark about the heavy traffic and Jean-Baptiste had wound up tossing a crystal decanter at his head; in Spain, he'd commented on the Moorish influences on Catholic architecture and Mirèio had spent the next ten minutes shouting about what she called the 'vulgar' carvings that surrounded 'his' (by which she meant Hindu, though he didn't bother to correct her) temples; in Denmark, he'd only so much as mentioned the monarchy when Ingvar had stood, turned, and walked out of the room without further comment; in Finland, he'd praised the Danish hospitality he'd received the week before and Freja had smiled as she'd nodded to the guards to poison his drink. Europe had, in short, not been a place to find solidarity in even the most superficial of struggle. At least, not until now. "You should come visit _me_ , then," Khan said. "No need to pack even one umbrella. But the trade, I suppose, is your lovely gardens. Perhaps, if your scientists _have_ learned how to manipulate the weather by tomorrow into a sunny day, you might give me a tour of the grounds."

"I think--" John let out a small sigh, just enough that someone who had not been listening carefully might not have heard it at all. "There are a great many people in my government who have scheduled other places for you to be then."

"All the more reason to find any excuse slip away." Khan smiled as he looked John right in the eye, warm and unafraid. "At any rate, I did not come to meet them."

John frowned now, and it was a real frown of curiosity, not just a micro-expression that had somehow wormed its way past his statuesque face's careful poise. "Then why _did_ you come?"

"To meet you," said Khan, with nothing but honesty in his voice and body. So many Augments mistrusted one another because they had been taught to mistrust everyone and everything, both overtly as their handlers fostered both competition and nationalism amongst their perfect specimens, and by example as those same protectors and nurturers proceeded to mistreat and betray them. If he were ever to be able to build coalitions amongst those like him, they could not be held together by lies.

At last, John looked at Khan -- not just looked, but _looked_ , staring with the intensity of a man focused on putting aside all previous assumptions and information in favor of sizing up the real man before him. Khan could almost feel the guards' holding their breath, ready to step in and do their best to disperse some violent confrontation, but he neither protested nor attempted to deflect the scrutiny. Let John get a good look, then. He had come this far not to conceal his intentions from those most like him, but because he wanted to be seen. There was no reason for him, nor for _any_ of them, to hide.

After exactly one full, silent minute, no more or less, John turned to the guards by the door. "Some tea, please," he said, and when the guards only stared back at him in confusion, he set his jaw back into his fierce mask. "For myself and my guest."

"Tea would be lovely, thank you," said Khan, and when John gestured that he should take a seat in one of the exquisite upholstered chairs by the fire, he sat, and when John looked at him with blue eyes open with new interest, Khan felt in his heart the particular surge of joy always felt by a man who has, at long last, found his foolish optimism vindicated.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In Arms](https://archiveofourown.org/works/842832) by [ladysisyphus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladysisyphus/pseuds/ladysisyphus)
  * [Nothing Beside Remains](https://archiveofourown.org/works/889321) by [Relvetica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Relvetica/pseuds/Relvetica)




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